Dose Me Up and Call It A Day
by freckleon
Summary: Perry doesn't do domestic.


_**Title**: Dose Me Up and Call It a Day_

_**Disclaimer**: I do not own Kiss Kiss Bang Bang or its characters._

_**Warnings**: Language_

_Hi. I abso-fucking-lutely love this fandom. I'm tearing my way through every available story I can find. And now, while half delirious on sleep, I'm writing stuff about it. Don't mind me_.

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Harry's driving left much to be desired, but Perry wasn't in a fit state to be picky and he settled for shouting only when Harry would glance over at him instead of the road. His leg hurt like a bitch. The stupid drug-dealing asshole had taken off right when Harry mentioned the boy's stepfather, which Perry had told him a million times _not to do_, and he and Harry were forced into an hour long foot chase through the city. It wouldn't have been so bad if not for the fact that the kid started climbing balcony ladders. For once it was Perry, not Harry, who took a fall and landed hard on his left leg.

"Harry, watch the damn lights!"

Harry yanked his gaze away, but it slid back all the same and Perry sighed, shoving his forehead hard into the palm of his hand. If this was how Harry acted when he got hurt, Perry was very thankful that the man had been unconscious during the worst of Perry's recovery last Christmas. He could just imagine a fleet of nurses having to steer Harry away from the surgery room every few seconds.

"I would like to make it home without any further incidents, you know."

"How's your leg? Are you in a lot of pain? Are you _sure_ you don't want me to take you to the hospital?"

"Jesus, Harry, you almost ran that lady over!" Perry grabbed the panic handle and held on tight. "Yes, I'm sure. I just want to go home. Besides, the hospital's on the other side of town and if I have to spend another twenty minutes in this car with you, I'm going to hurl."

"In your own car," gasped Harry, slanting his eyes to the side and attempting a smile. "I'm shocked."

"_That's_ how bad your driving is, dumbass, now eyes forward!"

When the house finally came into view, Perry let out a silent prayer of thanks to a being he didn't even believe in and finally released the panic handle. Perry didn't usually enjoy depending on people, but Harry was as harmless as they came and so eager to please that Perry didn't even pretend to not want help and leaned heavily on the other man until they made it to the couch.

"Alright, you wait there and I'll get some pain pills." Harry patted the pillows and brought him the remote, water, Advil, the works. Then he was knelt at Perry's feet and working on the laces of his shoes.

"You're a regular little housewife, Harry." Perry's head slumped into the back of the couch and he sank into the peaceful feeling of careful hands sliding along his foot, a thumb pressed just so on the underside of his ankle bone. God, this was domestic. Perry didn't do domestic.

"Only for you," said Harry and he set a palm against Perry's uninjured calf.

Perry opened his eyes and looked down to see if Harry was smirking at him, but the only expression on the man's face was sincerity and Perry felt something like delight curl sweet and uninvited in his chest. Fuck, Perry could have punched himself.

But he was already injured, so maybe he could indulge himself. Just this once.

He set a hand on Harry's cheek and Harry turned into it, eyes closed. "You get sweet when you're tired," murmured Harry.

"Yeah, well don't tell anyone."

"Like they'd believe me."

"Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we blame this on the sleep deprivation later? Or the injury or the Advil or, fuck, anything?"

"What? What are we blaming Advil for?"

Perry sat up, ignoring the pain in his leg and grabbed Harry's t-shirt to drag him forward. "This," he growled and kissed him. Harry's mouth parted on a gasp of surprise and Perry drank it in, let himself adore the sweet taste of smoke on Harry's tongue, reveled in the rough scratch of stubble and the feel of having Harry close.

Both Harry's hands had fallen on Perry's spread knees and Perry cupped his partner's jaw with both hands and pressed in closer, drinking his fill. If this was going to be it, he was going to damn well enjoy himself.

Harry seemed to take his suggestion they write this off later to heart because he tilted his head and slid his tongue into Perry's mouth without an ounce of reserve. And, oh, but that made it better.

"Oh, Harry, Harry," breathed Perry on a grin and Harry said, "Shut up, you're tired remember?" while climbing onto his lap, careful to avoid the bad leg.

"Feisty," replied Perry, not sure why he was still talking. That was Harry's problem, not his. The damn New Yorker was rubbing off on him in more ways than one. Pun in-fucking-tended, thank you very much.

Harry shut him up with another kiss and Perry got his hands around slim, stupid hips, up under his ratty shirt, and kissed back.

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_(end)_


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